


Seven Days, Seven Nights

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [6]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Arranged Marriages, F/M, Falling in Love Really Throws a Wrench in Things, First Time, Forbidden Love, Love Confessions, Unresolved Sexual/Romantic Tension, family dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 07:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4995907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A family getaway retreat brings changes, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A multi-chapter piece here, because splitting it up into different segments didn't make sense. Mature rating for later chapters.

It has become expressly obvious that he will likely never know everything there is to know about the family. After four months of employment, he shouldn’t have surprises dropped on him out of the blue, at least not big surprises. Little ones, yes. But surprises like the apparently obvious—to everyone except him—fact that, every three to four months, Araz packs up the family and treats everyone to a getaway resort on the state outskirts, away from Central City and the hustle-bustle of downtown life… _that_ shouldn’t be something coming out of the blue. 

But he supposes it’s something he’ll just have to deal with.

It’s supposed to be a lovely little place, with just about anything and everything a human being could want: food, drink (alcoholic and otherwise), decent scenery, and lavish suites. And, thanks to Araz buying out the entire venue, it’s a place of peace and privacy without another living soul around. This is a time to relax, unwind, and get away from the toils of everyday life.

Kyle also has a very strong suspicion that Araz does this on purpose, likely to make a point and send a message to his child. There isn’t a club or bar or local hot-spot within miles of this place. It’s a proverbial little island, and Anastazia will be staying put until the trip is done, in seven days. No impromptu outings, no reckless escapades, no club-hopping, and no wild antics likely to embarrass the family image.

But there’s something else going on. Something that warranted a private father-daughter meeting, behind closed doors, with no others present. Something that lasted over two hours and put Anastazia in an incredibly foul mood. It takes a lot—and he does mean _a lot_ —to put her in this kind of mood, where she maintains icy silence for twelve hours and not even his most shameless attempts at making her smile can break the arctic demeanor. Something is going on. Something—as much as he hates to be dramatic about it—very, very bad.

They all take separate cars up there. Araz is at the front of the line with his designated driver; two cars back, Anastazia is riding with Kyle at her side and Renold at the wheel. She stares out the window in silence, her expression not as enraged as the previous night, but now she looks tired, exhausted, and frustrated. He lets it pass for about thirty minutes, then discretely pulls the shade between front seat and back seat, shifts to the other side, and rests a hand on her shoulder. He hasn’t touched her since the announcement was made, a meeting was had, and her mood consequently declined, but he’s tired of tiptoeing around like she’s fragile or something. The worst she can do is snap at him, possibly strike his hand away; he’s dealt with worse.

But she doesn’t. She sighs quietly, and slowly leans back into his chest, head tucking beneath his jaw. It’s absent her usual playful demeanor or some coy comment that often leads to bantering—and some innuendos that shouldn’t be exchanged—but she looks like she just needs some human contact. Or, and he’s definitely flattering himself with this thought, maybe she just needs _his_ contact. Either way, he won’t complain. He doesn’t speak, and neither does she, but about twenty minutes later, she falls asleep.

He elects to not wake her until the car comes to a complete stop, and even then, he doesn’t have to do much; the car coming to an unnecessarily jarring halt startles her back to consciousness, and he has the momentary desire to “accidentally” take Renold out with the door. She blinks a few times, in a rather endearing little display, then shakes her head and slowly sits upright. She also seems to take special notice that he didn’t move her. He can’t quite read her expression, but there is an intent glimmer in her eyes that lingers, just for a moment, and then when she blinks and turns her head, it’s gone.

Checking in poses a different set of issues. Not “problems”—at least, not in the most technical of definitions—but…issues. For one, he learns that staying at Anastazia’s side is no longer limited to the waking hours. While he has started staying in her room out of exhaustion, and so he doesn’t wake anyone up maneuvering through the house at all hours, he doesn’t make a point of it, even though it probably would save trouble in the long run and he knows Anastazia wouldn’t object. Here, however, Araz means for him to. Literally.

“Have fun, Rookie.” Renold grins obscenely, as he hands over a card key that, as the desk clerk told him, directly matches the one Anastazia’s currently twirling between her fingers. “Behave yourself now. Don’t do anything the rest of us wouldn’t do.”

About four different responses form on his tongue at the same time—ranging from the sarcastic to the downright impolite—and he’s halfway to biting down on his inner cheek, swallowing it back, when he catches her eye. She’s fixing him with a very pointed expression, including an arched eyebrow and narrowed gaze, and he hears her voice in his ear: _Rule number two…_

“Don’t you worry, Renold.” He says, curling his mouth into an expression of dry amusement. “I try to only do that once a week.”

The larger man stares at him, dumbfounded, and he takes his exit with a graceful turn and, grabbing his bag, goes to join Anastazia near the elevator. She’s already pressed the button, and the doors open just as he’s coming to her side. Once they’re securely inside and the doors have closed again, she turns, ropes her arms around his waist, and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you.” She croons, mouth stretched wide in a broad grin. “Now, let’s keep that up, okay? I enjoy seeing Renold swallow his tongue.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He says, hard-pressed to not let the satisfaction show too much on his face, and follows her lead down the hall and to the last room on the right.

If the exterior of this place was lavish, the rooms are…a descriptive word he can’t even formulate. Except maybe overdone; that seems to fit. The wooden floors are polished and gleaming, the windows large and allowing for plenty of natural light, and every fabric in here—from the bedcovers to rugs to cushions to upholstery—is plush and looks expensive and just way too much in one place. Even the bed has two mattresses and a whole grouping of decorative pillows and—

Wait, _bed_? Singular?

Oh, no. _Oh, no._ There’s got to be another bed, or a sleeper sofa, or an army cot, somewhere, anywhere in here. Please, yes, somewhere…? But no, there’s not. The two couches are more like loveseats than anything, and there isn’t a bigger piece of furniture anywhere around here, and the only other doors lead to a closet and a bathroom. One bedroom, with a very large but very singular bed.

But there is a nice large rug beside the bed. He can sleep there for a week, right? If he can just talk her into lending a pillow, he’ll wrap himself up in the rug and call it good. Alright, dilemma solved.

“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “what exactly does the family do up here?”

She shrugs, “Unwind, mostly. The guys like to stretch out, relax, and kill the bar downstairs at night. During the day, there’s a den, where the bar is, and you can watch a movie, shoot some pool, read, whatever you feel like doing.”

He hears and understands the tone of her voice all-too well. “And what do you do, Miss Darbinyan?”

She turns her head to flash a thin smirk. “Try not to lynch myself in the closet.” 

She unlocks the patio door and steps out onto a small balcony. After a moment’s consideration, he joins her; the view is very nice, a refreshing cool breeze coming up to greet them, and they’re directly above the pool. Well, not directly; there’s probably about a fifteen-foot drop, and it would take a professional diver to make the necessary angle to get in from the balcony. He’s fairly certain she’ll be making that dive, with uncanny precision, the first chance she gets, just because she can.

“Oh,” she suddenly adds, “I forgot…there’s a family-owned restaurant, just down the road. Most of our meals are here at the resort, but Daddy usually has a family meeting at the start of the week. You know, get business out of the way first, and then we can actually unwind because he stops talking for more than five minutes.”

“Got it.” He nods, leaning back against the rail, looking out over the view once again. Really, this place is a little slice of peaceful paradise. No high-speed motorcycle runs, no club-hopping, no impromptu escapades, just quiet tranquility and nothing to do but stretch out and relax.

…and it hits him just how utterly boring that sounds.

They fall into comfortable silence for a while longer, watching the sun dip lower on the horizon. Carter comes to knock at the door at half past six, announcing that dinner is served. Anastazia, unsurprisingly, goes to the door and tells him she’s not hungry, that she’s not going, and to tell Araz that “Mr. Nimbus”—it really is strange to hear her call him that now—will keep her tucked under his wing and she’ll be perfectly safe. Carter doesn’t argue with her; most of the family, her father aside, doesn’t argue with her when she makes a statement. They may not like what she says, but no one fights her on it. Her stubbornness is a reputation in and of itself, even more than her “party girl” notoriety; when the two are brought together, it gets her favorable results. She’s a woman who knows what she wants and usually gets what she wants, but with a little more tact and grace than he initially imagined after their first meeting.

She is…a very interesting young woman. A very interesting, vibrant, passionately reckless, unlawfully beautiful young woman.

Once Carter’s footsteps have faded away, she takes her hair out of its clip, tussles the curls between her fingers, and kicks out of her shoes with a quiet sigh. With casual grace, she drops down onto one of the loveseats and nods for him to join her. When he does, she turns, drapes her legs over his lap, and slumps deeper into the cushions. It’s amusing to consider that, three months ago, he would have probably balked, blushed, and made some sputtering protest about this being improper. Today, he settles one hand over her outside knee, keeping both legs in place, and gives a similar sigh.

“Bored yet?” she asks softly, staring at the ceiling.

“Three months with you has ruined me.” He answers; even to his own ears, he knows how unapologetic he sounds, and how there’s no drop of regret in his voice. “Seven whole days of peace and quiet, no explosions, no near-death experiences…how will I ever survive?”

“Guess we’ll have to make our own fun.”

He says nothing, but shakes his head with a small grin. _That_ could be dangerous.

***

A good night’s rest brings him into a day full of multiple, poorly-disguised, highly-unwarranted comments from the others, and he quickly learns about a series of bets placed amongst them. The subject of these gambles? Whether or not he’ll be in bed with Anastazia by the week’s end, because apparently the morning cleaning crew has loose lips and has been chatting loudly and openly about how he was found sleeping on the rug this morning. His responses grow steadily colder throughout the day; by dinner, he’s ready to use the knife on his belt to extract the tongue of whoever makes the next comment within earshot.

It’s slightly interesting that Araz doesn’t tell them to be quiet; he can overhear all of this, very easily, and yet he never says a word about it. He’d have thought the patriarch would make a point of exercising control over his employee’s waggling tongues, especially when they’re talking about his daughter and her appointed guard. It makes him wonder how many other guards were subjected to this kind of gossip, or if this is just his lucky cross to bear.

He knows Anastazia isn’t amused, not about the rumors, because she couldn’t care less about whether or not people think they’re sleeping together—“They’re just jealous.” She tells him over breakfast, with all the care and concern of discussing the weather—but with him, for insisting that he’ll sleep on the floor. They argued about it for half an hour last night: she’d called him ridiculous, reminded him they were both adults and there was no reason he needed to sleep on a rug while she enjoyed the comforts of a plush mattress, but he’d stayed firm , insisted on it, and consequently hadn’t earned her approval. Last night, she refused to give him a pillow, just to make a point, but while he went to sleep without one, he awoke this morning to one beneath his head and a blanket over him.

When they finally get to retire for the day, he returns the pillow and blanket to the bed, while she is in the shower, and settles back on the rug. Apparently, the mental exhaustion of the day gets to him, because he falls asleep before she actually gets into bed. Around midnight, he wakes up to a pillow under his head and a blanket draped over him. He goes back to sleep, this time with a fond little smirk on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of his personal dilemma, Kyle discovers the true reason behind the family vacation.

At some ungodly hour of the morning—three-forty, according to the bedside clock—he’s awakened by a splash. Not a little splash, like someone turning on the bathroom facet or stepping into the shower; no, this is a very loud splash, the kind that would result from, oh, say, a human body diving from a notable height into a large body of water below.

He pounds his head into the pillow for a minute or two, mumbles something unfit to repeat, then pushes the blanket off and, half-asleep, stumbles his way to the patio doors—which, wouldn’t you know it, are wide open. The early morning air is rather chilly, and his T-shirt is probably not the best coverage, but he’s less concerned with being appropriately dressed for a time of morning he shouldn’t even be awake and more concerned with staring down into the pool and watching, with great exasperation, as Anastazia lazily kicks her way from one end to the other. Considering she just made an incredibly reckless dive in half-darkness, she looks very relaxed, calm, and just enjoying herself.

With a quiet huff, he pulls his jeans back on and—because trying to sneak out of the room, find his way down the hallway, work the elevator, and avoid getting caught is a losing proposition—slowly climbs over the railing and begins a slow descent, using decorative ledges and rough stone exterior for support until he decides it’s not worth the effort and drops down the remaining distance.

“Morning.” She says, appearing at the pool edge, arms folded neatly beneath her chin. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“I have mentioned that I’m not a morning person, right?” he replies, unamused with her little quip. “And I imagine your father isn’t either. You probably woke up the whole building with that little stunt.”

“C’mon, _Dad_ ,” she smirks, flicking water at him, “if I did wake up the whole building, it would be lit up like a Christmas tree. Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud.”

“You just woke me up well before any human being should be awake.” He sidesteps the next bit of water she tries to flick at him, cocking his eyebrow at her. “I must have left my cheery disposition in bed, where you and I are supposed to be.”

Her eyebrows lift in turn, but not with irritation or surprise. “I couldn’t agree more.”

It takes him a minute to find the coy flirtation in that comment—he really is _not_ a morning person—and once he does, he glares at her with more irritation and definitely no amusement. “I already told you, _no_.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he huffs, running his hands tightly across his head and down the back of his neck, “it’s not appropriate. And I am _not_ giving them any more leverage to make ridiculous bets about us, Anastazia. They’re already trying to figure out when we’ll share a bed together. What’s next? When we’ll actually have sex?”

Okay, _that_ was exceptionally inappropriate. But, frankly, it’s too early to try and put his filter on. 

Anastazia blinks, eyebrows lifted, and a rather odd smirk curls her lips. He doesn’t like that smirk. He really, really doesn’t like that smirk. She’s looking at him like a crocodile ready to snap down on a young zebra. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He rolls his eyes skyward, releases a heavily-exasperated groan, and slowly turns away. “It is far too early for this conversation…I’m going back to bed.”

“Why do you act like this?” Her voice is soft, imploring, and he shouldn’t turn around because if he does he knows she’ll be pouting at him. “Am I ugly, Kyle?”

He needs something hard to bash his skull into. Maybe the nearest wall? “The person who thinks _that_ is an idiot.” He says. “And the person who _says_ it will be a dead idiot.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

He knows there was a point in life when he had something that resembled “willpower”; he’s wondering when, where, and how he managed to lose it. “Alright,” he turns back around, forces himself to stay focused and not let the injured-puppy look get him off track, and cross his arms tightly, “fine. You want to talk? Then we’ll talk. First point: I am not here to be your boyfriend or your nightly indulgence or your weekend playmate. I’m here as your bodyguard. I’m here to protect you, nothing more.”

“You should have thought of that before you kissed me.” She returns, the irritation more obvious than ever in her voice and what little he can see of her face. Amusing, for her to be so irritated with _him_ when _she_ is the guilty party here.

“ _You_ kissed me first, Miss Darbinyan.”

“ _You_ continued it, Mr. Nimbus.”

_Alright, screw it._ “Because, as we have previously established, I like you.” He tosses his hands up—dramatic, yes, but warranted—and steps closer with a pointed glare. “I like you and I find you incredibly…unfairly attractive. I enjoy being with you, I don’t like sharing you, and I’ve had more than my share of those idiots acting like our relationship—as completely messed up and insane as it is—is some kind of joke or entertainment. And—”

She lets him stop mid-sentence, stay silent for a minute, and then she shifts a little, tilting her head at him. “Go on.” She murmurs. “Please?”

There’s more to say. He knows he has much, much more to say. He just can’t think of it right now. At the moment, all he sees, all he can think about when his brain is already at minimal working function, is the half-illuminated portrait of her, resting at the tiled-trimmed edge, water clinging to her hair, dribbling across her cheeks…there’s one highlighting her eyelashes, and another smeared across her lower lip, glistening, shimmering, inviting…

He’ll be soaked after this. So will she. And they still will have to find a way to get back up to the room without drawing attention. These are things he should have considered first, before he dropped to his knees, caught her face in his palms, and kissed her. The kiss itself is not the problem, per say, but he does know the woman he’s kissing, very well, and when her hands lock around the back of his neck and pull him into the pool, he’s not surprised. Because he expected it, he should have known better, or at least planned better.

But, again, it’s just too early for thinking straight and contemplating the consequences of his actions and so on. And he does like her. He likes her a lot. Too much. _Way_ too much for the sake of his actual job duties. He likes her, he wants her in ways that are definitely not job-appropriate, and he’s seen her in various states of undress one too many times to not have entertained certain…fantasies which are, again, _not_ appropriate.

She doesn’t help matters by continuing the kiss, with great enthusiasm, running her hands over his chest and cupping the back of his neck while she devours his lips and coaxes him to respond. It’s too much. It’s not enough. She’s so very willing, so very close, and it would be so easy… 

“We could.” She whispers against his lips, kissing again, and again, and again. “We can.”

_No._ “We shouldn’t.” He answers; it’s the first sensible thing he’s said in the last hour. _We can, but we shouldn’t._ “And I won’t.”

***

It’s incredibly frustrating, this constant limbo between “right and wrong”. It’s something the rest of the world has to deal with, those who don’t work in this world where “right and wrong” are joked about and mocked, not actual moral dilemmas. By all rights, he shouldn’t even have to worry about that nonsense, and yet here he is.

It isn’t as though Anastazia has been responding like a scorned girlfriend; she is, he can tell, disappointed, but no one around them notices. She behaves the same as always—same dry wit, same devil-may-care attitude—and she still talks to him and sits beside him during the family meals. No one suspects a thing; everyone is going about their daily routine as usual, and he’s sitting in a muddled mess of thoughts. Irony sucks.

Intellectually, he knows his resolve is justified. She’s not his girlfriend. She’s his charge, his protectorate, his primary responsibility. His personal feelings and admittedly-undeniable attraction is irrelevant and should in no way affect how he does his job. And, to his credit, he doesn’t let it. He still does what he’s supposed to do, and with great dedication. Actually, ironically—and yes, Irony really does suck— _that_ ’s the problem. He has no issues doing what he’s supposed to do, in such a way that it earns Araz’s quiet approval, because it means he’s with her, at her side, and he’s the only one she needs. The _only_ one.

“Kyle,” Araz interrupts his train of thought, while he’s sitting in the den, absently nursing a beer; the patriarch looks unnaturally serious as he makes a short gesture, “could I speak with you for a moment?”

It’s not a question, and he knows it. He sets the bottle aside and follows his employer into a small lounge, away from the main area. Araz closes the door, nods for Kyle to sit down, and then joins him in the matching armchair. An uncomfortable moment passes in silence, then the older man sighs tightly and leans back into the leather.

“Tomorrow night,” he says, “we will be meeting some guests for dinner. These…guests,” he says the word with a little sneer that doesn’t go missed, “are not friends, nor anyone I personally care to be dealing with. However, certain circumstances being what they are, such meetings are regrettably necessary. For the greater good of the family and all.”

He has the urge to lift his eyebrow but doesn’t. Neutrality is his friend right now. Araz takes a drink from his glass, swallows, and sighs again. “There is no trust shared between us—these guests and myself—and the matters at hand primarily concern Anastazia.”

Araz, thankfully, misses the way Kyle’s hand clenches around his knee. “While I do not think anyone would try anything particularly foolish, one can never be too cautious. I need you to keep a special eye on her, throughout the evening, in the event of any cheap recklessness. If such an event occurs…” his dark eyes drop down to the gun holstered in Kyle’s belt, “I trust you know how to use that thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He nods, takes another drink, and nods again. “It is essential that Anastazia remain unharmed throughout these coming weeks, until the matter is settled. I cannot risk any damage to her, Kyle, and I trust I can count on you to ensure as much?”

Again, a statement, not a question. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Araz finishes off his drink and leans back further into the chair. “Go on, then. I will see you both tomorrow night.”

***

Anastazia is dressed for bed and reading when he finally gets back to the room. She looks up when the door closes, visibly startled at the force used, and puts the book aside. “There you are.” She says, “Where have you been? I haven’t seen—”

“What’s going on?”

She blinks and looks very confused; he probably should have rephrased that question a little better. “Excuse me?”

“What’s going on tomorrow night?” he says, quickly collecting his thoughts and stepping forward. “What’s this big gathering that has your father telling me to protect you like I’m guarding the Crown Jewels?”

Anastazia’s reaction is definitely not what he was expecting: her jaw locks, her eyes drop down, and her fingers curl tightly in the sheets. After a minute, he realizes she’s shaking.

“Anastazia,” he says, crossing around to the other side and sitting on the mattress edge, “tell me. What’s going on?”

She exhales, hand abruptly reaching out for his and grabbing with unexpected ferocity. He lets her. It takes another moment or two, but then she meets his gaze and he can see a blossoming redness that can only mean tears are trying to come and she’s doing her damnedest to force them back. “My father is marrying me off.”

The statement makes him desire details, _right now_ , but he bites his tongue and lets her breathe before he starts hammering out the questions. His patience pays off, because he doesn’t even need to ask. She just starts talking. She tells him this is the real reason Araz brought them here, not for a getaway retreat but to have this meeting without public awareness. A meeting between long-time enemies and rivaling families, she says, without any amusement but with very distinct bitterness. The Moran clan has been battling with the Darbinyans for several generations, and her father is tired of it. He doesn’t want peace, she clarifies, but wants to be done dealing with “an oversized oaf whose ego rivals his bulk”. And so, in following the great and highly-antiquated traditions of old, Araz is looking to settle the clans’ differences with an wedding: marriage between herself and Moran’s son.

“Tomorrow,” she says, “is the first meeting to put everything in motion. When the bride and groom-to-be first lay eyes on each other, and the groom decides whether or not he likes what he sees.”

“And what about you?” he asks, quietly, fingers tightening around her hand a little. “What if _you_ don’t like what you see?”

Her smile is bitter, at best. “Inconsequential.” She whispers, the tears finally brimming in her eyes. “I’m the dowry. A pretty prize, a bird in a cage, an offering. It doesn’t matter what I think, or what I want.”

It all makes sense, in ways he wishes it didn’t. The random questions, the renewed expression of her attraction towards him, trying to get him to reciprocate, the way she’s been on edge and her moods have been exceptionally erratic…it all makes sense. It makes perfect sense.

Anastazia suddenly lurches forward, fingers fisting in his shirt, curling tightly against him, pressing her head beneath his chin. “Don’t leave me.” She whispers, almost childlike, desperate, frightened. “Please, Kyle. Tomorrow night…please don’t leave me. Don’t let him touch me.”

He acts on instinct, not rational thought (again), and pulls her even closer, arms wrapping around her quivering form. “I’ll break every one of his fingers if he tries.” He promises, kissing her forehead for a lingering moment. “Every last one.”

_He won’t touch you. I’ll never let anyone else touch you. Ever._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've both become very skilled at pushing the boundaries, but this might be a new low. Or high, depending on how one looks at it.

The restaurant essentially matches what Anastazia described: family-owned, small-scale, clean and well-maintained, with the scent of fresh-baked bread wafting through the air as soon as the door opens and they walk inside. An elongated table is already set, waiting for them, baskets of rolls laid out from one end to the other. A stooped, elderly woman greets Araz with formal familiarity, gestures to the table and then steps around the group towards the door. The other tables are empty, and he watches as the woman turns the sign to indicate the restaurant is no longer open for business. This is definitely a place Araz has brought the family before; it’s the same routine for every other restaurant he owns, or buys out, in Central City.

Anastazia looks very different tonight, and he’s not sure he likes it. The cropped denim, altered shirts, and black leather boots have been traded out for modest heels, a pearl necklace with matching earrings, and a simple black dress. Her hair is drawn up in a formal style, lips painted an innocent shade of pink, and she looks as though she’s walking to her execution. Araz doesn’t direct them to sit down, not immediately, so Kyle keeps close to her side. They say nothing—more’s the pity, but they can’t risk words being exchanged right now, in public—but her eyes are communicating plenty. He hopes his are doing the same.

About half an hour after they arrive, the door opens again. A very broad and heavy-set man with pale skin and dark hair negotiates his way through the door, flanked by six other men. Kyle can only assume this is Moran, judging from the way Araz stiffens and assembles a coldly-polite expression. Everyone is sporting a fine suit, and suddenly he feels a little underdressed in only trousers and a button-up shirt. But at least this keeps his gun on display, just in case anyone thinks about trying something.

The newcomer approaches Araz and they greet each other with a firm handshake. Each one acknowledges the other’s men with formal nods, and then Moran beckons someone forward from the back of his crowd. Araz does the same thing to Anastazia, and the way her throat tightens around a quiet swallow sends warning signals up his spine. He doesn’t like the look on her face. She looks angry. She looks upset. She doesn’t look like herself.

Her eyes dart over her shoulder as she’s following her father’s command, desperation written all over her face. Kyle holds her frantic gaze and discretely sets a hand to his gun. It’s a silent message, but a pointed one, and he will follow through on the threat if he suspects anyone even thinks about laying hands on her. _Look, but don’t touch_ , is the rule tonight.

She slowly comes to stand at her father’s side, hands fisted at both sides and jaw locked. From behind Moran’s massive bulk comes another male, possibly about Anastazia’s age, with dark hair and beady little eyes and a similarly large figure, his father’s likeness in every way, dressed in a pale grey suit and wearing a smile directed right at Anastazia. It’s a smile that makes Kyle’s hackles rise; this man is examining her like a butcher examines a cow fit for slaughter.

For at least half an hour, the various members of each clan stand a respectable distance apart while both fathers and their children stand together and talk. Well, the fathers do most of the talking, and the children stay silent. Anastazia holds the younger Moran’s gaze, but hers is frosty and visibly uncomfortable with the way he’s looking at her. Kyle tries, once or twice, to get her attention, at least to let her know without words that he’s right here and he’s not going anywhere and if this little snake tries to touch her, he’ll find a new purpose for his knife. But she never looks his way. She probably can’t, with her father standing right there, but it still bothers him, rubs his nerves the wrong way. He’s not used to sharing her attention. He really, _really_ doesn’t like it.

Finally, the two men nod and step back. Moran summons his son aside and they begin to speak in hushed tones together. Anastazia steps away with cold deliberation, jaw clenched, and her fingers are twitching at her left side. He recognizes those ticks. She doesn’t get this way often, but he’s seen the same twitch of the fingers many times before. It means she’s angry. She’s very, very angry, and he’s not sure if it’s a good idea for her to have a steak knife within easy reach.

He shouldn’t, not with Araz so very close, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done something he shouldn’t; once she lowers herself into the seat next to him, he reaches out under the table and grabs her hand. She twists her fingers around his, clenching tightly, squeezing to the point of pain, and while it’s a little uncomfortable, he doesn’t let his face show and he lets her continue the grip. Things have changed between them. He isn’t just her body guard, he isn’t just her personal attendant. He’s whatever she needs him to be.

Araz settles down at the table head with Moran. Each clan sits on one side of the table, with distrustful glances being exchanged ever so often. Moran’s son keeps his eye on Anastazia the entire time, through appetizers and main courses and dessert with coffee. She eats almost nothing, save for two rolls and nearly the entire pitcher of water left on the table. Kyle forgoes any sense of propriety and common sense, and keeps one hand on her at all times. Sometimes it’s on her leg, other times, when she lowers her hand back below the table, he grabs ahold of it and doesn’t let go until absolutely necessary.

Finally, when the evening ends and the dinner is finally finished, Araz and Moran exchange pleasantries and promises to see each other soon. Moran’s son makes a point of stepping close to Anastazia— _too damn close_ —and murmurs his own farewell. When his hand rises and nearly grazes her cheek, Kyle decides boundaries are indeed overrated and steps directly between them, one hand resting securely on his gun.

“With all due respect,” he says, holding the other man’s gaze, not particularly caring that his voice sounds like an animal’s growl, “Miss Darbinyan is not to be touched, under any circumstances.”

Moran’s son scowls, sizing him up with a quick glower. “And you are…?”

“Kyle Nimbus.” He says; from behind, he feels Anastazia’s fingers curl into his shirt, fisting loosely against his back. “Miss Darbinyan’s bodyguard. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Moran.” _Not in the slightest_ , he silently adds. “Now I’d appreciate it if you would step back.”

The other man is not pleased, judging by the look on his face, but backs away when his father announces they are leaving. Kyle keeps the hand on his gun until he sees them make a full exit, then turns and rests his hand on her mid-back, steering her silently from the crowd and to the car. She says nothing, not even when they’re in the vehicle, and he has an underlying suspicion he did something terribly wrong. He can’t imagine what, but he was expecting _some_ kind of response by now.

Upon returning to the resort, Anastazia slides her key into the lock with more force than necessary, kicks off her heels, and makes a beeline for the minibar. He removes his own shoes and jacket, putting everything away in its proper place, and then hears a very soft sniffle. It’s nothing directly audible, but he can still hear it. A sniffle, and then another, and on the third, he finally turns around. Anastazia is standing by the small refrigerator, fingers curled tightly around a bottle of wine, but it’s not open. She’s leaning heavily against it, against the counter, and she’s crying. The tears are falling in slow, lazy drops down her cheeks, leaving darker spots on her dress, and they keep coming.

“I learned a long time ago,” she finally whispers, fingers shaking violently around the bottle, “that people expect a certain image out of you, based on what you are. When I was a kid, people knew I would be a pretty little princess, but they also knew I couldn’t be perfect because my family is such a royal mess. So I played the part, wore the pretty dresses but climbed trees and got into trouble, and people would shake their heads but in their eyes, I could see the thing unsaid. The _I knew she’d be trouble_ look that everyone had when they saw me.”

She wipes away another set of tears; more come as soon as she blinks. “As I got older, nothing changed. People either expect the mobster’s daughter to be a brainwashed little doll, or a loose cannon with a short fuse. I chose the latter, because I could get into all kinds of trouble, dress like a whore with open legs, but still have fun and not care what people thought of me. People look and see another troubled young lady who lost her way because Daddy didn’t love her and Mommy wasn’t around. Girls see the perfect makeup and pretty smile and expensive dresses, know they’ll never measure up and they hate it. Guys see the short skirts and bare legs and they think an easy lay and an evening’s entertainment. I know what people think when they see me, and I let them think it. Because the truth is…they have no idea who and what I am. No one does. Not my family, not my father, no one. I am the wild party girl, the wayward child, the perfect offering for the good of the damn family. I’m whatever people expect me to be. Everything I am is a perfect lie, because that’s what people want to see. The lie makes them happy.”

“Not all of it is a lie.”

She shakes her head, an unamused smirk on her lips. “Yes, it is.” Her fingers finally rip the bottle open and she takes a long, very unhealthy drink. “A pretty little lie. Just the way people like it.”

“No, it’s not.” He repeats, stepping forward. “I know what you are. Who you are.”

“You don’t know who I am, Kyle.” She says, taking another drink, and another, and then two more.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you _don’t_.”

“Yes,” his hand drops down, catches the bottle, and wrestles it from her grasp; he puts it away, away from her reach, and leans against the counter, “I _do_. I know who you are, Stazia.”

She pauses, looking at him for a long moment, tilting her head a little, and then stepping closer. He’d like to think she isn’t a complete lightweight, but then again…she doesn’t drink on a regular basis, she’s not exactly packing muscle-tone or stored fat, and she didn’t eat anything at dinner. At the very least, she has to be tipsy; no sober human being smiles like that, not when tears are still drying on her cheeks.

“I like that.” She whispers, tracing a fingertip over his lips. “Stazia. Let’s keep that. I like it.”

He sighs. “My point remains. I know you. I know who you are. I see it every single minute of every single day. You’re not the pretty princess. You’re not the local screw-up. You’re not some wayward little girl.” His arms wrap around her waist, pull her flush to him, and one hand slides up her back. “You’re fire, Stazia. A consuming inferno that could destroy this city.”

Her fingers walk a slow path up his chest, tracing slow patterns in the fabric. “Then what does that make you, Kyle?”

“Whatever you need me to be.” He whispers, rubbing the muscles in her back slowly, methodically. Her eyes glimmer at his response, fingers curling deeper into his shirt, pressing a little closer. She’s definitely tipsy; not quite drunk, but tipsy. She’s also very warm, and very beautiful, and staring at him with hunger in her gaze.

“Stay with me tonight.” She breathes. “Screw the rumors, screw the bets, and screw the rules. Just be mine. Clyde to my Bonnie. Stay with me tonight, baby.”

He agrees, because there’s really no point in arguing boundaries tonight. She proves to be incredibly affectionate, curling tight against him, barely letting him change for bed before wrapping herself around him and burying her face in his chest. One hand drifts idly along his side, occasionally veering off to his chest and tracing random shapes in the shirt. Her body grows limp and relaxed, her breathing slowing, and there’s a moment when he thinks she has fallen asleep.

“Kyle,” she whispers, breath warm against him, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For what you did.” He can feel a little smile against his collarbone. “My knight in shining armor.”

“Watch your language.” He murmurs, kissing her crown with a little smirk. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Don’t worry.” She tucks herself a little closer, sighing contently, nuzzling like an affectionate kitten. “I promise to not tell anyone. We’ll keep it our little secret. Just ours…”

He stays silent, listening as she finally drifts off to sleep, fingers slowly combing through her hair while he memorizes the feel of her body against his, the sweet scent of her skin and hair, the sound of each breath, the beat of her heart…

His mind creates images, visions of her dressed for bed and lying beside that walking landmass, side by side, husband and wife. It makes his stomach tighten and churn, and then, with barely a blink, the images change; now, he is the one at her side, in the marriage bed, just like this, but with the title of “husband” attached to his name and his ring gleaming on her finger. A rose-gold band, her favorite, a respectably-sized sapphire framed with small emeralds, all delicately encased in gold. The stones would glitter, every time she shifted her hand, lights dancing across the wall and ceiling, and she would smile at him, running a hand up his chest, and whisper—

He blinks it away and settles into the pillows. That is nothing but a foolish fancy; he’s the hired help, not a potential husband for the family’s only daughter. It’s ridiculous and impossible…

…but it is a glorious dream.

***

An impromptu “little walk” turns into a forty-five minute hike, leading deeper into a heavily-forested area, a notable distance from the resort. If they’re lucky, no one will have noticed yet; if they’re not so lucky…well, he was told to keep at her side, and no one can say he’s not doing exactly that.

She looks much more like herself this morning, in jeans, her favorite boots, and a sleeveless top in defiance of the morning chill. He thinks, once or twice, to offer his jacket, but she’s clearly more focused on getting them to the destination—wherever that is—than the weather. His attempt at being a gentleman can wait, for now.

The sound of rushing water breaks their shared silence, and it seems to encourage her, because she suddenly picks up the pace, ushering for him to do the same, rounds a couple corners, and then comes to a stop at river’s edge. She looks happy, incredibly relaxed, and stretches her arms skyward with a content smile. It’s odd to see her so delighted when there are no high-speed antics involved or laws broken; this place speaks more of tranquility than it does reckless living. It’s nice, make no mistake; it’s just not what he was expecting. But then again, he doesn’t know what he was really expecting, when there are no clubs or party-hubs to find for miles.

“So,” he says, once they’ve both settled on atop large nest of flat boulders, overlooking the river and its adjoined waterfall, “this is your slice of paradise.”

“You sound unimpressed.”

“More like, surprised.” He nods around at the scenery, “I didn’t think this was really your kind of place. Or have I just unwrapped another layer of the mysterious creature that is Anastazia Darbinyan?”

She rolls her eyes and shoves his shoulder with a playful half-smile. “I love the city, and I love having a good time, and I love getting into and slipping free of trouble. But when I found this place, a few years ago, I knew I could live out my days here. Surrounded by nothing but still and quiet, without anyone to make rules, run my life, and still be holding the other end of the leash, no matter how much I pulled and tugged and tried to break free.”

“You could do it now.” He says, after a moment’s pause. “You’re not a child anymore…if you wanted to walk away, you could.”

“I could.” She nods. “But as of late…I’ve found a reason to stick around.”

He hears the thing unsaid only too well; even if he missed it, the way she leans her head on his shoulder and slips a hand in his communicates the message equally well. For a moment, they sit in comfortable silence, listening to the rush of water, the birds flying overhead, the breeze rustling through trees…it is a very serene place. He doesn’t know that he can see her living here, practically a hermit in a little cabin, but anything is possible. Maybe it could happen.

“If you could go anywhere,” he slowly says, “anywhere at all…would it be here?”

“Would I be alone?” she asks, eyes downcast, staring rather intently at their joined fingers and the slow brushing strokes she’s running over his knuckles.

“Hypothetically speaking,” he turns his hand over in hers, entwining their fingers, “no.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” she presses her cheek firmer into his shoulder, “I would go as far away from this city as I could possibly go. Some place I’ve never been before. Some place I could easily get wrapped up in, lost in, and would never find my way back. Some place I could live out the rest of my life without any reminder of who I once was.”

He lets the silence fall again, mulling over her words and letting images resurface in his mind. Images of taking her far away, to places he’s never been, places she’s never been, places where neither of them know anything about and could easily lose themselves in, day after day after day. Days spent relaxing in a place of peace and quiet; nights spent on the town, seeing what is to be seen, staying out far too late and sleeping well past a respectable morning hour. A life without her family, without obligations for either of them, of wild and reckless freedom lived side by side…

“Have you ever been outside the city, Kyle?” she murmurs; he slowly becomes aware that she moved even closer, and the other hand has settled atop his knee, fingers brushing here and there, slow and idle.

“We moved all the time when I was a kid.” He answers, watching her fingers move in place, enjoying the feeling, wishing he could feel those fingers and those hands running along his arms and back and chest. “We never stayed in one place for very long, and I wasn’t allowed out to explore.”

“Why not?”

“Safety reasons.” It’s probably the most polite way to describe living constantly on the run, with a father wanted by the law in several states and a mother locked into a permanent state of submission to her husband. He wondered, more than once, if his mother had ever really possessed a mind of her own. If she had, his father certainly beat it out of her by the time their son was born. “My father wanted to keep me close.”

“Sounds like we have a few things in common.” Stazia’s fingers glide a little past his knee; she’s testing the waters, gaging his reaction, watching and waiting for him to follow old patterns, tell her to stop, possibly even move her hand away himself with a pointed comment about inappropriate behavior.

He should be doing exactly that, but he isn’t. “What happened to your mother?” he asks, very quietly, still watching her hand.

She falls silent for a while; her fingers don’t retreat but they don’t advance. Around them, the river rushes along and the waterfall spouts additional contribution to the current. He’s starting to see the appeal of this place. The tranquility is rather soothing; it’s not complete silence and solitude, but it’s not the loud noise of a city. He likes it.

“Once upon a time,” she slowly continues, “a boy met a girl in a high school classroom. They had a fling, they graduated, they didn’t see each other for years, and then suddenly they were reunited on the streets of downtown. He was a successful businessman, with questionable practices and illicit connections, and she was a seasoned lady of the evening. They had a few drinks, they had a fling, they left the next morning…and nine months later, there was a baby in a basket on his doorstep, with a note.”

She sighs, shrugs one shoulder, and makes an unamused sound. “Isn’t that how all fairytales end?”

Her fingers drift a little further, and then she pulls them back into a fist in a highly unusual display of self-restraint. He should be flattered and impressed. Instead, he’s disappointed, and after a moment’s consideration, he tilts his head, closer to her ear, and whispers, “You can keep going.”

Wrong thing to say, yes, but it wouldn’t be the first time. He’s forming a few bad habits these days. Pity he doesn’t care.

Her hand slides down, settling at his upper thigh, thumb brushing lazily, and then she sighs again. This time, she sounds, oddly enough, apprehensive. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” She whispers. “Even wanting…” there’s a moment when she seems to struggle with the words, trying to find the right ones, “…this, you, all of it…I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

This would be the point when he stops the conversation, gently removes her hand, and changes topics very quickly. “Does it scare you?” he murmurs into her hair, kissing lightly.

Stazia shakes her head, twice. “Yes, and no.” she traces the inner seam of his jeans with two fingers, eyes following the movement. “I…It angers me, because on my wedding night—with him—I won’t know anything. I won’t know how it’s supposed to feel, what I’m supposed to do. Obviously, I’ll know if he hurts me, but I won’t know how to change it or fix it. My wedding night…it already feels like he’ll be raping me, over and over, because I don’t want him and I know he has no interest in making me feel good or enjoy it.”

“He shouldn’t be the one enjoying it.” This is absolutely _not_ the conversation to be having, under any circumstances. “In fact, he shouldn’t even be concerned with how _he_ feels. His focus should be…exclusively on _you_.”

She tilts her head, giving him a dry and unimpressed look. “That’s not how it works, Kyle.”

“Says who?”

She sighs, sounding exasperated, somewhat irritated, but mostly bitterly accepting of this supposed fact. “Every woman who ever gave me their worldly wisdom on this. It’s all about the men. _All_ about the men.”

He’s heard those words before; more specifically, he’s heard the words and seen the mirroring actions in his parents’ marriage. When the man wants it, how the man wants it, and how long the man wants it, regardless of whether there are other things to do. Like, for example, feeding the children or cleaning the house. More to the point, hearing those words from _her_ lips—this woman who is so wild, so free and reckless, so in love with living life to the fullest, making up the rules along the way and breaking them in the process—is wrong. Fundamentally wrong. Stazia is not some broken and battered child; she’s not a housewife shut up in a cage and locked away from the world; she’s certainly not a slave to her husband-to-be. Surely she has to see that…but no. If she did, if she knew the first thing about being touched and coveted and having her pleasure put first, she would never—

An idea is forming in his head. A highly inappropriate, absolutely out-of-line, _should not do now or ever_ idea. It’s wrong, in so many different ways, on so many different levels. If Araz, or anyone for that matter, ever found out…

His hand slowly settles over hers and brings it to his mouth; he kisses her knuckles slowly, several times, feeling her questioning gaze but unable to formulate a proper answer. For the first time, words are failing him, but action…and his mind is formulating all manner of ideas regarding _action_. All of it is wrong, so very wrong. They should leave now and return to the resort before anyone notices their absence—if they haven’t already.

“Kyle…?” she murmurs, shifting a little closer; the cut of her shirt doesn’t help anything, showcasing the smooth lines of her throat and the graceful shape of her collarbone, and just beyond that… “What’s wrong?”

He releases a slow breath, briefly closes his eyes, and then turns off his brain—at least the part that still has rational thought and better judgment and is reminding him of just how bad an idea this is. He’s whatever she needs him to be, and he’s really just tired of overthinking these things. He’s tired of walking such a thin line and minding himself left and right. Someone in this line of work, frankly, just shouldn’t have to care that much.

Her lips open, probably to ask another question, but it never comes out. Instead, when he suddenly tilts his head and presses her lips to her throat, she releases a startled gasp. He likes that sound. He likes it quite a bit.

Once again, she’s not wearing perfume, and he couldn’t be more grateful. The natural scent of her skin is just…delicious. She smells like mint, like honey. He spends several long minutes on her neck, just to draw in as much of her as possible. Beneath his lips, he can feel the erratic hammering of her pulse, and follows an urge to kiss, taste, devour the flesh there. She’ll have a mark very soon, and he smirks a little at the thought. The first blemish on virgin flesh, and it belongs to him.

He doesn’t want to rush this; quite the contrary, he’d love to linger and savor and spend hours on just one part of her body before moving to the next. But time isn’t a commodity to be wasted, not right now. They’ve already been gone over an hour. Someone must have noticed by now.

Both hands fall to her shirt hem while he slowly descends from her jaw to collarbone; her fingers are clenching and unclenching in mid-air, confused, uncertain, body at odds with rational thought. She’s never looked vulnerable, not in the last three months, but right now…the look on her face alone declares vulnerability, and fear, and a whole lot of other things. It’s a gorgeous view.

“Kyle, wait…” she whispers—no, whimpers, as he carefully pulls the shirt up, not for a full removal, but enough to reveal the soft curves beneath. He takes a moment to drink in the view. He’s only glimpsed before, only teasing hints, but now… “Please…what—?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, leaning forward and kissing a slow, deliberate path from clavicle to chest; she whimpers again, squirming a little at the combination of his mouth and hands on her, at the same time. The bra is keeping him from unobstructed access, but it’s enough, for now. Boldness nudges away the trepidation, the uncertainty and need to walk a thin line between them. His better judgement is turned off, shoved away, and every remaining sense is devoted to her, only her.

It takes another minute, but then he feels her hands settle at the back of his head and neck, trembling, but clutching. Clutching like she’s drowning, lost in a storm, and he’s her anchor, her lifeline. When one hand glides down from her chest, negotiates briefly with the clasp on her jeans, and then slips past the waistband, between thighs that tighten, tremble, and quake at the sudden touch, her grip on him becomes frantic, her chest clenching violently as though her lungs won’t draw in the breath needed, and each sound past her lips is a wordless cry or a desperate whimper.

He really wishes he didn’t have to rush this, not when this is the portrait he’s receiving in turn. Such a beautiful vision of innocence, virgin fear and desire mingled and muddled together…and it’s his. It’s only his. She’s never shown this to anyone, and she never will. Never. She’s his. She is _his_.

“Kyle,” her voice breaks against his name, breathless, shaking violently, “I…I don’t…oh God, what is—what are you…?”

“Do you want me to stop?” he keeps his voice calm, low in her ear, setting soft kisses at random and never ceasing his motions between her quivering legs. He will stop, if she tells him to, but he has a full view of her gaze right now, and while there is definitely fear and uncertainty, there is something else lining her wide pupils. It’s dark, it’s hungry, and it wants more.

“I…I don’t…I don’t know. I just—” her words shatter around a broken cry, hands suddenly clawing frantically at his skin, and he barely keeps the satisfaction from his voice as he kisses her forehead.

“Relax, Stazia.” He murmurs, kissing there again, and again. “Just relax. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Please,” her forehead presses hard into his shoulder; her hips are rocking against his hand, without finesse and without control, with one and only one need in mind, “Kyle, please…I can’t—I…I feel…”

“Don’t fight it.” He adjusts his pace, accommodating the unspoken need for more and now, savoring her responsive gasp and moan. “Don’t fight it…I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

If it were possible to capture the exact sound she makes, when she falls over the edge only a few minutes later—a breathless cry that sounds very similar to his name, wrapped in half a sob and half a moan—he would, and he would listen to it again and again and again, because it was the most glorious sound he’s ever heard in his life. The only thing to match it is the sight of her slumped against him, quivering, barely breathing, still clutching at him, with a thin sheen of sweat along her neck and shoulders.

He kisses her crown, twice. “Are you alright?”

She doesn’t respond for a short while, but then he feels her head nod against his chest. It’s a very small, almost childlike gesture; a child’s response from a grown woman. He leans back, gently tilting her head up so he can see her face. He can’t read her expression, and it’s a little concerning. More than, actually; he followed this impulsive urge with the silent assurance she wouldn’t reject him. If he was wrong…

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, frowning at the thought. Surely he couldn’t have, but…

Her eyes, strangely enough, drift from his face to his chest, several times; her lips are quivering, tongue occasionally flitting out to wet the dry skin, and it takes three tries before she can actually speak. “You…you didn’t…You’re still…”

 _Oh, right._ “I’m fine.” He’s not, at least not at the moment, but he will be. He just needs to think of other things, anything but the way she’d responded to him, felt against him and around him. Think of cold things, of the most unpleasant things he can possibly recollect. Five minutes of that, and he’ll be fine.

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” He says, determined to not give her the satisfaction of reading him so well, and shifts away. “But we need to get back. Can you walk?”

He is being a little cold about it, yes, but the alternative is to stay in place, and that’s not an option, because the minute she touches him, no matter how innocently, it’ll be over and they will not leave this place for another hour, if not two. And his purpose was not…not to do _that_. He can’t. Well, he _could_ , and he won’t pretend he doesn’t want to, badly, but…he can’t. This wasn’t about him. This was about her.

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” He stands up, hoping she’ll straighten and compose herself, and then they can just leave. Once they start walking back, everything will be fine and he won’t—

“Kyle.” She does stand up, and she is redressed, but the look on her face is one he can read only too well, and he really, really needs for her to not look at him that way. “You’re not fine.”

“I am.” He repeats, this time through gritted teeth, because she’s right: he really isn’t fine, and her standing so close is definitely not helping.

“You’re not.”

“Drop it, Stazia.”

“No!” she snaps, with far more frustration and a sharp tone than he was expecting. “I won’t—I can’t.”

“Why _not_?”

“Because I…” her voice falters, briefly, and suddenly she looks like the uncertain, timid, anxious girl he had in his arms only a few minutes earlier; the difference is, this girl looks convicted and determined, anxieties aside, “…I want to. I want to touch you.”

 _…Oh._ “Stazia…”

Her hands rest against his chest and she steps even closer. “Teach me how.” She whispers; he swallows back a groan when her hips rest against his, and her eyes flicker closed and she exhales softly. “Teach me.” Her hands descend to his waistband, seeking out the zipper and buttons with an eagerness he wasn’t expecting, at all. “Show me. Show me, Kyle.”

…Alright, he tried.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once the boundaries have been stretched and pushed one too many times, it's very difficult to put them back in place. In fact, it's damn near impossible.

By all accounts, he should be incredibly disappointed in and deeply ashamed of himself. He has now managed to stomp over just about every rule in the book, several times, and if Araz never even _suspects_ what has happened between his daughter and her appointed guard, it will be an act of God. He should want to slap himself upside the head.

He doesn’t.

Fortunately, no one seems to notice that he’s in a strangely pleasant mood. Nothing too eye-catching—he’s not smiling like a fool or anything equally dramatic—but he’s relaxed, content, and incredibly at ease. Very, very, _very_ relaxed. He really should be ashamed of himself. But he’s not.

The den is fully populated tonight: there’s a group gathered around the television, watching a football game; another group is at one side of the room, playing cards; Renold, Carter, and Raffi are playing a game of darts; on the other side of the room, Araz and Stazia are engaged in conversation. “Conversation” meaning Araz is doing all the talking and Stazia is sitting as far back in her seat as possible, arms crossed tightly and jaw locked. The topic of this little father-daughter chat isn’t hard to guess.

“Nimbus,” Carter calls out, breaking into his thoughts and waving at him with a set of darts in hand, “try your luck?”

He’s definitely not in a hurry to answer the call. Socializing with the others isn’t really his thing—a habit carried over from an incredibly reclusive childhood—and he doesn’t feel the need to start now. But, since Carter was kind enough to make a public announcement, loud enough for the entire building to hear, and eyes are roving over in his direction, he supposes there isn’t much of a choice in the matter.

Carter hands him the darts, with an unsubtle and rather pointed comment about how no one has been able to defeat Renold, the self-proclaimed master of this game. It does, of course, go without saying that no one has _tried_ to defeat Renold; they seem to have a thing about seniority around here, never deliberately outmatching or outwitting those with longer tenure. The larger man knows it, with a smug smile on his face and a cocky tilt to his head, the _Don’t embarrass yourself now_ look. Kyle would love nothing more than to put the man’s beer bottle someplace from whence it shall never be retrieved.

Weighing the darts in his hand, fingering each one thoughtfully, he stands at the designated distance, then pauses and looks across the room. Stazia, he knows, was never invested in her father’s topic of conversation, but she’s since stopped pretending and is instead watching Kyle with amused curiosity. Her eyebrows lift playfully, her lips twitching up, and he reads the look without a single word shared between them: _Let him have it._

It’s incredibly immature, juvenile, and far beneath him…but, in his defense, he never had a girl to show off for during his youth. He never flirted or fraternized, and school functions—most especially school dances—were strictly off-limits, per his father’s rules. And he was never enrolled at one school long enough to have a really serious relationship, had he even desired one. At the time, he thought nothing of it. Romantic relationships, as far as he could tell with his parents’ marriage, weren’t much to boast about and certainly nothing worth investing in. He certainly knew enough, even as a young boy, he didn’t want a girl like his mother. He didn’t want a doormat. He wanted someone fun and exciting; someone who was his equal, not his slave. He never saw the appeal in having someone you supposedly “loved” be so automated that she was nothing more than a puppet. It simply didn’t make any sense.

Apparently, his lacking exposure to the female persuasion is now coming back to bite him. He feels a strangle tingling sensation, a curious warmth spreading through his limbs, a desire to impress and wow and awe the young woman holding his gaze, with a gleam in her eyes and a smile on her lips. He feels like a rebellious school boy with a crush. A really, really, _really_ big crush.

By the unwritten rules of the rules, he shouldn’t. He should play the sap, make a fool of himself, and then bow out to the undefeated master, simply because he’s the young pup and Renold is the tenured alpha. He shouldn’t try, and he definitely shouldn’t make a point to win and dethrone the king. But he’s never been very good at following the rules.

While Renold is staring, aghast and dumbstruck, at the three darts pinned perfectly in the middle of the board, Carter hands over two twenty-dollar bills to a third man with shared smirks; the onlookers are suddenly very busy with their drinks, though a few of them exchange monetary rewards for a bet won between them. Kyle settles back at the bar, motions for a glass of whiskey, and releases a slow, heavily satisfied sound with a broad grin across his face. _Oh_ , that felt good.

“The doctor was right.” Stazia says, smiling as she slides onto the stool beside him, crossing one leg over the other; his eyes quietly follow the movement and he barely avoids licking his lips at the sight. “You are a man who doesn’t miss.”

“I was left alone a lot as a kid.” He answers quietly, nodding as the bartender hands him the whiskey, and taking a small sip. “Nothing to do but experiment, try your luck…and perfect your skill.”

“And what other skills have you perfected, pray tell?”

He lifts an eyebrow, shrugs, and takes another sip. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?”

“Well, you know me.” She murmurs, leaning forward—nothing too inappropriate, except for the way she looking at him through her eyelashes and that wicked little smile is playing across her lips. “I have high expectations for surprises. And I don’t like being disappointed.”

He smirks around his glass. “I’ll remember that.”

***

“What about that one?”

“Mm.”

“This one?”

“Ugh.”

“ _Ugh_?” he lifts an eyebrow at her disgusted expression. “Stazia, do you know how many women would kill just to have this kind of wedding venue, all expenses paid?”

“Too many, and each one of them is in dire need of a mental evaluation.” She retorts, tossing the offensive magazine aside with a scowl. “The beach paradise wedding is not only overrated, it’s completely impractical. Do people not realize just how quickly the weather can change on the coast? Let alone the sunburns and sand blowing in the face, possibly causing severe retinal damage.”

His other eyebrow lifts to match the other. “ _Severe retinal damage…_ ” he slowly repeats, trying very valiantly to not smirk, both at the commentary and the adorable look of absolute disgust on her face. “Well. You should advise these young, misinformed brides accordingly, Ms. Darbinyan. To think, how many of their honeymoons have consequently been ruined by a terrible choice in venue.”

She throws a pillow at him. “Glad you’re amused, Nimbus.”

He’s too old for this, but that little fact doesn’t stop him from catching the pillow and swinging it wide to catch her in the shoulder. Her shocked expression lasts for a minute, then she starts grabbing pillows left and right. “One of these days, you’ll learn to stop playing with fire, Kyle Nimbus.”

“I _like_ playing with fire, Miss Darbinyan.” He smirks, using his one pillow as a make-shift tennis racket, batting the pillows away as they come flying towards him. “It makes life interesting.”

When she takes a minute too long, trying to recollect one of the pillows she already used, he seizes the opportunity and launches forward, grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the mattress, drinking in her surprised little cry of delight and savoring the smile on her face. He vaguely hears the wedding catalogs they’re supposed to be going through slip off the covers and fall, one by one, to the floor in a mussed pile of glossed pages and color photos, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll worry about those later.

One leg entwines with his, while she tries to wriggle free of his grip. When that fails, she presents a very impressive pout and wide eyes. “Please?”

“Please, what?”

“Let me go.” She pleas, obviously willing to play the game. “I want to touch you.”

“Say the whole thing.” He leans closer, brushing his nose against hers. “All of it. In your nicest, sweetest voice.”

Her eyes glitter, briefly, before she reworks the expression from a pout to something that, really, belongs on a shy school girl’s face. “Please, Mr. Nimbus,” she murmurs, voice soft and silky smooth and very sweet, “let me touch you? Pretty please?”

He smirks, a little softer than usual, and kisses her while releasing her hands and rebalancing against the mattress. Her hands slide over his shoulders, running a slow path down, up, and back down again, fingers massaging here and there. It feels good.

“Didn’t know you had a schoolgirl kink.” She murmurs against his lips. “Should I dress up?”

“I don’t have a _kink_.” He nips her lower lip, just to make the point. “But you are so very pretty when you beg.”

Her tongue darts out, licking the small bite mark, and her eyebrows lift. “You could have me begging for more. _So_ much more…” her hands run down, fingers seeking and finding his waistband with a very distracting caress, “Or don’t you realize, I already am?”

“We can’t.” he says, quietly, humor gone. “I…we can’t.”

“Why?” her grip tightens, fingertips brushing below the fabric. “And don’t tell me it’s because you don’t want me, Kyle. I have plenty of evidence to the contrary.”

_Eloquently phrased._ “That isn’t it.”

“Then what is it?”

_Your father wants you to be a virgin_ , is the true answer, but he’ll never say it out loud. If she doesn’t know it for certain, she can certainly guess and accurately assume. Araz isn’t exactly subtle about these things. “Stazia,” he slowly begins; there are words that need to be said, boundaries to be put in place—or rather, put back in place—but before he can actually say anything, her lips are on his again, and again, and again, and her hand is slowly gliding beneath his shirt, soft and warm and smooth and—

_Knock. Knock._ “Nimbus.” Carter calls out from the other side, knocking twice more. “You in there? Boss wants to see you downstairs.”

There is a highly uncivilized comment on the tip of his tongue, one he has to physically swallow back while negotiating his way free of her arms and off the bed. Stazia makes a sound that’s frustrated, but also sounds as though she’s ready to cry, twists on her side, and buries herself in the closest pillows. He almost turns back, almost says something, but doesn’t. He wouldn’t even know what to say right now.

***

“We will be meeting with Moran again tomorrow night.” Araz tells him, holding another glass of brandy in hand and looking far more relaxed this time, lounging in the chair with ease. “He will be informing me, officially, if they like what they see in Anastazia.”

Kyle says nothing, keeping his body language as relaxed and neutral as his employer’s, lest the other man notice his fingers digging slightly into the upholstery. _Like what they see…_ he’d just as soon gouge Moran’s eyes out with his bare hands than have to hear, in any sense, that the oaf likes what he sees. Not that there isn’t plenty to like—Stazia is beautiful, so incredibly, wondrously beautiful—but therein lies the problem: no one should be looking that closely, and they have no business “liking” what they see.

“Once again,” he continues, “I doubt there will be any unfortunate incidents. However, in the event of…”

“She’ll be fine, sir.” Kyle says, idly fingering his gun, just to emphasize the point. “I promise.”

She won’t be fine. Not like this; not being dropped into a marriage she doesn’t want, to a man she despises, without any say in the matter. She won’t be fine. And frankly, if he has to watch Moran’s son run his beady eyes over her one more time…

“Were there any issues yesterday?” Araz asks, sipping his drink slowly. “You were gone for quite some time.”

“Exploring.” He answers with barely a blink. _In more ways than one._ “This is an impressive stretch of land, and Miss Darbinyan needed some fresh air. I regret to say we managed to get lost along the way; neither of us brought a map.”

“Ah, of course.” Araz nods, looking relieved and, more importantly, convinced. “I should have had one of the others give you a thorough tour before we arrived. My apologies.”

“One of the best ways to learn new territory is to get lost.” He smiles politely. “Doing so ensures it won’t happen again.”

“Very true. Very true…” the elder man takes another sip, finishing off the brandy. “Thank you, Kyle. Good evening to you both.”

He makes his exit swiftly, offering a random excuse when the others offered an opening in the nightly card game and continuing up to the room. Stazia is fast asleep when he slips inside the door, but he can see fresh tear tracks on her cheeks.

Waking her up now won’t do any good; he opts instead to gently adjust her, away from the edge and towards the center, before getting changed for bed and slipping beneath the covers to join her. She shifts a little when his hand brushes a few loose strands away, but makes no further movement or sound.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, kissing her cheek for a prolonged moment and wrapping one arm around her. Come morning, she may lash out and express her true feelings on this, all of this, but for now…for now, she’s just his.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle sets the record straight with Anastazia's groom-to-be.

He dresses in all black for the dinner, and keeps his gun proudly on display, right at his belt; if the oversized worm didn’t catch the hint last time, a second round of exposure should be enough to demonstrate this assembly of nickel and steel isn’t for show, and he doesn’t make idle threats. One wrong move, and he’ll put a bullet where it counts, even if it sparks a war and gets him fired, or worse.

The bathroom door opens behind him, and his first glimpse of her is in the closet mirror. His next view is taken while facing her, and he spends five minutes drinking in every last detail, from the violent shade of red she has wrapped around her figure and across her lips, to the accentuated curves of her hips and chest, to the sharp red heels that make her legs look even longer, bare skin and smooth lines. Her hair is drawn up again, but this time there’s an artful casualness to it that looks more natural, more like her devil-may-care self. 

“You said I looked good in red.” She says, twirling slowly in place with a playful smile and cocky tilt to her head. “Do you approve?”

“I do.” He nods politely. “You look very nice.” He wants to tear every last thread off her.

Her smile grows as she steps forward, collecting her purse, smoothing the skirt a little, and accepts the arm he offers her. He supposes he should be more concerned that she’s so at ease, so relaxed, and hasn’t made one mention of the previous night. She could very well be “over it,” as the phrase goes, but he doubts it. Her memory isn’t that terrible and somehow, she just doesn’t seem that forgiving.

But she’s cuddling against him, head snuggled in his shoulder through the drive, hand nestled in his…she’s just a bundle of affection. A bundle of affection dressed in a very…enticing dress. Far more than any woman should ever look, for the sake of a living, breathing male specimen. It’s a highly unfair contradiction.

The Moran clan is waiting for them this time; both father and son are in matching navy suits. Araz summons Stazia away from the moment they walk through the door, and Moran rises from his chair to follow suit with his son. Kyle never takes his eyes off them; Moran’s son is halfway salivating over Stazia’s appearance tonight, and it’s making his trigger finger twitch. This time, Moran talks to her, with the body language of a hormonal snake, but she keeps her silence and her eyes stay cold. Fire turned to ice.

As soon as the private conversation ends and dinner is set to begin, Kyle takes a pointed step forward and, the instant she’s within reach, catches her elbow and pulls her in close. He seats her on the opposite end of the table, as far as possible from Moran and his son, then takes his place— _his_ , no one else’s—at her side. Beneath the table, he feels her hand settle atop his thigh, fingers brushing slightly. It’s innocent enough, probably a silent gesture of gratitude. He slips his hand down and catches hers, squeezing in return.

Dinner chatter begins a short time later, providing a welcome distraction as Stazia leans in to whisper a quiet murmur of thanks for keeping watch over her. Again, it’s innocent enough, until she tilts her head and presses her lips against his cheek. When she pulls back, a mere second later, because anything longer would have raised eyebrows, he feels the warm imprint of her lips on his skin. He has to wipe it away, before anyone sees the red stain of her lipstick, and it’s almost painful to do so. He loves that color—yes, red looks very, _very_ good on her—and as he scrubs at his cheek with the napkin, his mind conjures images of red stains smeared across every inch of his body. 

He quickly takes a few drinks of ice water, to cool the blood in his veins, but it doesn’t help much, if at all. He still feels the press of her mouth against bare skin, and the images aren’t settling down or fading away. If anything, they’re getting worse.

When dinner is over, dessert has been had and the last cups of coffee are empty, Stazia excuses herself to the restroom and leaves him waiting patiently outside the designated area. He had the thought to follow her, but there’s really no place for her to go and he didn’t see a little gleam in her eyes, the one that indicates she’s plotting an escape and he should follow or be left behind.

As he’s leaning against the wall, Moran’s son lumbers forward; he supposes the oaf is trying to pull off a confident swagger, but he doesn’t carry his weight very well and the only thing he resembles is a documentary of an elephant seal blundering its way across the shoreline.

“Mr. Nimbus,” he says, stopping a little too close for comfort, “I want to offer my apologies. I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

_There isn’t a “right foot” to get off on._ “Apology accepted, Mr. Moran.”

“Good.” Moran gives something that looks like a smile; it makes him twitch just looking at it. “I also wish to thank you, personally, for your service. Rest assured, you won’t need to worry about her much longer.” 

He reaches out with a meaty paw, takes hold of Kyle’s hand in the traditional handshake, but there’s something between their palms. Something thin and papery, rolled tight together, like... “I’ll take very good care of her. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

The mysterious item pressed against his palm registers quickly, and he swallows very slowly and very tightly. “No offense, Mr. Moran,” he finally says, hoping this walking landmass is very much offended by the way he jerks his hand back and doesn’t take the offering, “but don’t give me your money. I don’t want it.”

He sees a little flicker of tension pass across the other man’s face, a slight tightening of the jaw, and a flare of the nostrils when he breathes out. “Consider it a gift between friends.”

_Bull._ He’s not this man’s friend, this man is certainly not his friend, and that money has nothing to do with being friends. It’s a message, a blatant and degrading slap to the face, a complete mockery of what his job is and what his role in the family amounts to. This man regards him as a paid babysitter, a glorified nanny to keep watch over the bride-to-be before a real man can come in and take over and do the job right. He suddenly wishes he had kept the rolls of bills, so he could shove it down the man’s throat.

“I don’t want your money, Mr. Moran.” He repeats, keeping his gaze locked on the man’s. _Give it back to me, and I’ll find a new place to store it._

The man’s jaw tightens, more noticeably this time, and then he slowly exhales, offers a passing comment of “No harm intended,” and walks away. Watching him walk away, there’s a short minute when Kyle’s mind entertains a few different places he could put a bullet, where it would count, and a few other places where it wouldn’t kill the blundering idiot but would leave him a writhing mass of fat and ego.

“Hey,” Stazia’s hand slips over his shoulder, and he feels the tension fade away with the warmth of her skin and the delicate forms of her fingers on his arm, “you ready?”

_More than._ He nods and walks with her out the door, back towards the parking lot, but this time, when Renold opens the car door, she shakes her head. “Go on ahead.” She says. “I think I’d like to walk home tonight.”

No one argues, as usual, and they loiter a while in the parking lot while the cars pull away, return to the main road, and then disappear beneath the hovering canopy of trees and dimly-lit street. He waits a moment more, then follows her lead as she begins a slow, casual path towards the road. “So,” he says, “how much of that did you overhear?”

“All of it.” She answers, arms folded lightly beneath her chest; the air isn’t particularly cold tonight, but she is in a sleeveless dress without a sweater or wrap. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across her shoulders. “Including the most subarctic tone I have ever heard you use.”

“I won’t be bought,” he replies, glowering at the road and kicking a small pebble out of his path, “and I damn well won’t be treated like some money-grubbing dog.”

“Hush.” She murmurs, slipping an arm around his waist and tugging him closer. “We’re finally alone, and it’s a beautiful night. Let’s just breathe and take it all in, okay?”

It’s moments such as these when he understands what it really means to be content, to be completely at ease and be free of all burdens. When she leans into him, holds herself close against him, slips her hand in his and it all conspires into the image of an ordinary couple. A real, honest, perfectly acceptable couple, one that was just out for a nice dinner and is making their way back home, talking and enjoying each other’s company, and there are no underlying rules about what their relationship should and should not be. 

***

When they get back to the room, he follows an impulsive decision and takes her out on the balcony with the murmur of having “a little surprise” in store. She follows, questions in her eyes but never openly seeking answers, and then pauses when he pulls out his gun and beckons her closer.

“What’s this?” she asks, softly. He smiles, doesn’t answer, but once she’s set her hand in his, he pulls her back to his chest, and sets the gun in her hand.

He remembers the first time he ever held a gun: one of his father’s hunting rifles, far too large for someone so young to be holding, let alone using, but as his father had said, he had to learn sometime. It had been quite an experience, to pull the trigger and have the recoil send him flying across the dirt, but also to look up and see he’d hit his target. That had been the first time his father had ever offered him praise. It had also been the first time anyone told him he “had a good eye”. The first, but not the last.

Stazia holds it in both hands, alternating the fingers with which she strokes the cool metal, brushes across the ivory, and caresses the barrel. Her gaze devours the details, the nearby lamps gleaming in her clear brown eyes, and he adores the look. She is intrigued, fascinated, and filled with longing.

He guides her hands to a different position, fitting his atop hers while he wraps both in place and directs her arms upward, aiming for an unseen target. The fingers of one hand glide a slow path from her wrist to elbow, up the delicate curve of her shoulder and settling near her collarbone; the other hand remains in place, no longer directing but just lingering and enjoying the way they fit together.

They can’t actually pull the trigger, more’s the pity; if anyone hears a bullet fire in this area, it will end badly. But he can talk her through the experience, describe what it feels like to release a bullet and feel the gun come alive and to have it be an extension of oneself. She needs to really feel it and see it, to understand, but from the way her eyes burn and her breaths become slow and steady and the beat of her pulse quickens beneath her flesh, he knows she’s filling in the blanks as best she can, envisioning and imagining, and he knows she feels the urge to really know. When they get back to the city, he vows to show her everything. Somewhere private, just the two of them, without interruptions or onlookers, he’ll show her.

They stay like that for quite a while, neither of them particularly inclined to move away or put space between them. At some point, his hand drops from her shoulder to her waist, and then to her hip; his palm fits around the curve, resting firmly in place and stroking idly with his thumb. She’s very relaxed against him; she’s not wearing perfume tonight, and he can take in her natural scent, the sweet aroma of her skin and hair. He drinks it all in, keeping her close and smiling as she tilts her head this way and that, staring down the barrel and slowly flicking her tongue against the upper lip as she imagines. He’s going to enjoy being her teacher. He’s going to enjoy it quite a bit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some battles are not meant to be fought. There is dignity in accepting surrender with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, ending with a bang (literally and figuratively) and quite a bit of M-rated material. Please be warned accordingly.

“We leave tomorrow morning, at eight o’clock sharp.” Araz declares, pacing deliberately at the table head, dark eyes fixing on each member of his crew, one after the other. “There is much work to be done back home. You have all had the past week to yourselves, to unwind and relax and so on. Therefore,” he braces against the table, with another slow look dragged across the gathered, “there will be no excuses. You will each resume your job duties with nothing less than perfect execution. For those who fail…there will be no second chances.”

A murmur of agreement ripples across the table; from his place at the far right, Kyle silently considers the words, possibly with more seriousness than anyone else, and for different reasons. His job duties could very well be coming to an end. He can’t imagine Araz will postpone this marriage very long, and once Stazia is married—personal feelings about the matter aside—what will his place be in the family? Should he expect this is a short-term arrangement? Perhaps he needs to start looking elsewhere, maybe even try his hand at a normal, legitimate job. It’s a laughable idea, but anything is possible.

The night is young, so he decides to pass some time by playing darts. As far as games go, he does enjoy this one, and he’s very good at it. Renold sits on the sofa, glowering and pouting, which only serves to make him smirk, broadly. Let it be known he won’t bow down to the almighty seniority like the rest of them. If he does have to leave, at least he’ll be leaving with a well-earned reputation.

Around half past eight, he finally calls it a night and heads back upstairs. A good sleep will do him well, and he’ll need it after this past week. There have been some moments of relaxation, but most of the others only served to tighten the knots in his muscles and make him feel like an iron rod has replaced his spinal cord. Not including the mental stress and…other various forms of tension which have come about as of late. He needs to get a good night’s sleep, and he’ll be good to go.

He’s expecting Stazia will be awake—it’s far too early for her to be anything else—but maybe if she sees how exhausted he looks, it will buy him an early rest and she won’t disturb him until it’s absolutely necessary. He may have to ask nicely, but that will be fine. He’s not completely above begging in certain circumstances.

“How was the meeting?”

He has the door open and is halfway inside the room when the question comes from the bed, and he promptly jerks to a halt. Thirty-five seconds follow, passing with the speed of cold syrup, and then he drags his other foot across the threshold, closes then locks the door, and leans heavily against it. “Fine.” His tongue is far too heavy in his mouth, and it’s taking a few extra seconds to formulate intelligent speech. “Just covered the basics. We’re leaving at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, good.” Stazia smiles, perfectly at ease, as though there’s nothing concerning or unusual about being stretched across the bed covers, stark naked. “That gives us the whole evening to ourselves, doesn’t it?”

“It would seem so.” He swallows again; his throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. “So…the time for subtlety has passed?”

“I grew bored with it.” She shrugs, shifting a little and propping her chin atop folded arms. “And as you, my dear guardian, should know…it is unwise to keep me bored.”

“Indeed.”

Her lips curve a little as she extends one hand outward, fingers beckoning. “Come closer, Kyle.”

“I…really shouldn’t.” Easily the dumbest thing he could possibly say, but his brain function is not up to par at the moment. There is nothing covering or concealing the details of her body, except for the bedcovers, and only because she’s lying flat on her stomach, which of course leaves the entirety of her back exposed. Every…last…inch.

“Why?” she murmurs, tilting her head at him. “Why even now do you try to fight it?”

He has a vague awareness of his feet moving forward, though he doesn’t remember instigating the mental command to walk, but he’s moving closer so he must indeed be walking. “This…this isn’t—your father—”

“My father wants to marry off a virgin, yes, I know.” She slowly rises, a hungry lioness with prey in her sights, and the bedcovers no longer serve to hide the details. His head spins, eyes rushing over every inch of exposed skin with heat pulsing fast through his veins. “Pity that I no longer care what he wants. I have someone _I_ want. And I will not play by his rules any longer. I want you, Kyle, and you want me.”

“Stazia…”

“We have already sampled each other’s bodies.” Her hand suddenly fists in his shirt and drags him forward; when his knees hit the mattress edge, his dwindling logic protests, reminding him he could run and she would never catch him. The rest of him pushes logic aside, beats it mercilessly into the ground, then spits on it, and he slowly crawls onto the covers, closing the distance between them. “Why do you insist on denying us the rest of it?”

“I told you,” he whispers, “it isn’t about me. It’s about you. If we do this, I will…hurt you.”

“I know.” Her hand slides down to his waistband, slipping lazily across the fabric and teasing at the skin. “And I will never belong to another man. I’ll be yours.” He bites back a sharp hiss as her hand settles at the front of his pants, stroking much too deliberately. “Only yours, Kyle. Look me in the eye and say you don’t want me. That you don’t want this.”

“Stop.” He grabs her wrist and pries it away, ignoring the pulsing throb that’s spreading heat through his system. “Stazia, just…just stop.”

Her eyes flash, but not with anger. No, the hurt is back, and far more apparent than ever before. “Do you want me or not, Kyle?”

“Yes.” There’s no point in pretending otherwise; she has, as eloquently phrased, plenty of evidence. “But this…this is—”

“This is _right_.” She whispers, yanking him closer. “You, me…we are two of a kind, Kyle. We were made for each other.”

“That’s been said before.” He comments, eyes slowly drinking in the unobstructed view. Soft skin, smooth lines, full curves…his fingertips are tingling with the sheer urge to simply touch. Touch every last inch, with his hands, his mouth…take her in his arms, hold her against him, and never let go. Never let her go.

“And has it ever been more true?”

 _…No._ No, it hasn’t.

Her moan is swallowed in the kiss, and he thinks there might be a tiny smile on her lips when he claims them. Both hands delve into her hair, losing his fingers within the soft curls; he soon feels hers beneath his shirt, pushing up with urgency until they’re forced to break the kiss, and with a frantic upward motion, she finally gets it off and tosses the fabric aside. Her eyes run across his chest, dark and hungry, hands running at random over every bit of skin she can reach. He muffles a responsive groan into another kiss, this one at her throat. She sighs, one hand gliding around and settling between his shoulder blades, while her head falls back.

Her leg brushes his, tracing lazily, nudging between his thighs enough to spark fire, but his jeans are a barrier between them, and he growls into her shoulder. “Take them off.” He whispers, all eloquence and coherency tossed out the proverbial window. “Now. I want to feel you.”

She exhales softly, something that sounds very much like _Yes_ , and then both hands are on his waistband, jerking and pulling without care. He feels the denim yield, and then her hands push them down, off, and he kicks them away. It’s messy, without any kind of grace or the smooth performance that is so inaccurately displayed in the movies. He could care less.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” Stazia gasps, kissing without finesse along his neck and shoulders, hands scratching down his back before clutching his hips, pulling down and arching up, moaning breathlessly, “Kyle—Oh my God…you’re so…”

Yes, he is. And really, even the crudest description of his present physical and mental states wouldn’t cover it. He has no recollection of ever being this aroused before, in his life. His head is spinning, his body on fire, and all brain function reduced to one thought and one thought alone. But he needs to relax, calm down, just a little. If he doesn’t, he will hurt her more than the inevitable.

“Wait. Just…just wait.” He whispers, kissing her forehead lightly before sitting back on his knees, tugging her upright in turn. Her curious gaze remains, even as she follows, and he takes a few breaths, gets a grip, and pulls together some semblance of rational thought.

“Kyle?” her voice quivers, just a little, and he can see the flicker in her eyes, the unspoken protests teasing her tongue, as she reaches out for him, “Please…”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says; it’s taking every last bit of willpower for him to think straight and ignore the unsatisfied need. “But I will, if we do this…right now.” Words aren’t working so well, so he takes her hand, kisses the fingertips for a lingering moment, and then slowly brings it down. “I need you to…”

Good God, he sounds like a blabbering idiot. And, if he’s not mistaken, he can feel a distinct flush creeping up his neck. Great. Now, he looks _and_ sounds like a blushing virgin. Fantastic. It should not be this difficult to just—

“Stazia,” his thoughts come to an abrupt halt as he watches her slowly tug the remaining clothing aside, position shifting, leaning forward, while her hands rest on his thighs, “what are you… _what_ are you doing?”

She says nothing; her expression is tentative, teeth worrying the lower lip, but she’s still coming closer, eyes attentive, and mouth— _Oh hell…_ his body jerks, violently, and a strangled sound erupts from his throat. He feels her pause, watching him, trying to determine what she did wrong, and that would be the ideal moment to stop her, or do something, anything besides blindly reach for her, fingers stumbling across her face and loosely tangling in her hair. “No.” he exhales, throat constricting around the word. “Don’t…don’t stop.”

There is no further encouragement needed; she has no skill or refined technique, but the sheer feel of her lips and tongue on him, the sight of it—obscene as it probably is for him to watch—with the gentle tickle of her hair against his thighs and between his grasping fingers, the soft sounds she makes, the brief moments when her eyes flick upward and find his in a searing gaze…he can’t take it. He just…can’t.

He refuses to collapse like a teenager, but only barely, with his arms shaky and non-cooperative. After a minute, he’s able to relax his fingers from the death grip they have on her hair and slide a touch down her cheek. His head is spinning, his lungs feel too small and too empty, and every inch of him tingles. Stazia shifts onto her knees, eyes dark and hooded, and runs both hands up his thighs, back to his waistband, and tugs. He gets the message, subtle as it is, and forces his limbs to cooperate so he can get the damned thing off.

“You…you didn’t have to do that.” He says, stating the obvious and, at this point, the irrelevant. She shrugs, a small smile on her lips, and inches closer.

“I wanted to.” She murmurs; a soft shiver runs through her limbs, even as she runs her touch to his stomach and chest. “You make me want to do things I never have. When we’re together, I feel…fire.”

He loses a soft sigh into her kiss, letting her have the reins for a minute or two before pulling away. “Lie back.” his hands glide across her legs, teasing the soft skin of inner thighs. “Let me return the favor.”

A most fetching blush blooms across her cheeks, and he tucks away an affectionate smirk. She quivers, nibbling her lower lip again, and slowly complies. A flicker of her innocence appears, again, as she settles into the pillows and watches him shift forward, taking his time, savoring the way she trembles, the anticipation building even when she doesn’t know what’s coming, as his hands travel closer, cupping her thighs and gently nudging them apart. “Kyle…”

“This is about you, Stazia.” He echoes in a low whisper. “Let me make you feel good, baby.”

The term of endearment slips off the tongue, too easily, without any hesitation, never a thought attached, and he loves it. It feels natural, feels right, and she visibly relaxes, stretching a little, and nods for one last confirmation. Her eyes never leave him; he feels her gaze even as he closes the distance, ventures deeper between her compliant limbs, and then he hears a soft moan that sends a rush of heat through his veins, stirring desire back to life with barely a touch.

“Oh…” she quivers like a violin string, hands running unchecked across his head and down the back of his neck, “Kyle…this…oh, yes. Don’t stop. _Please_ , don’t ever stop.”

 _Never_ , he wants to say; his actions communicate it instead, inspiring broken gasps and breathless whimpers from her lips. Her hips arch delicately, shifting closer, directing without words. He reads her with skill, with eager attention, with primal hunger his driving force as her moans grow in pitch and frequency, her body trembling, her skin electric beneath his fingertips. So close, almost there… _Don’t fight it, Stazia. Let go. Fall. I’ll catch you. I’ll always catch you._

Her fingers, shaking, reach blindly for him, finding his face after a moment, and he answers the silent summons, finds her lips, and kisses her once again. Quivering limbs wrap around his neck, his shoulders, bringing him closer, closer, until his chest rests flat to hers and he’s lying between her parted thighs. Her heat is so close, so very close, and his desire has returned with a vengeance. It wants satisfaction and it wants it _now_

She must feel it—not that there is any possible way she couldn’t—because she slowly breaks the kiss, eyes traveling downward, and her hand follows suit, brushing over him with more confidence than before. He swallows a groan, but his hips shift into her hand, seeking more, more contact, more friction, more…everything.

“Do it.” Stazia whispers, each stroke becoming more deliberate; she’s enjoying the look on his face and the way his body is ignoring all concept of decency, just to have more of her touch. “I want you, Kyle. I want you inside me, right now. Make me yours. All yours, only yours. Please. No more waiting.”

 _No more waiting._ He runs a hand across her left leg, wrapping it loosely around his waist. _No more games._ She whimpers, just softly, as he slowly makes the final breach, and clutches at his shoulders. _No more pretending._ Halfway through their next kiss, he feels the tension ebb, her body relax, and her other leg wraps around him. _No more boundaries._ He buries his face in her neck, drawing in her scent, feeling the heat of her body against and around him. Beautiful. So beautiful. _Mine. **Mine.**_

“Harder,” she whispers, so low, so breathless, and yet so fervent in his ear that it sparks a new blaze through his veins, “Harder, Kyle…I can take it. I want it. Come on. Yes, yes, just like that…” her legs lock tight around him, “Don’t stop. Make the whole world disappear.” 

One hand cups his face, pulling him back to meet her gaze, thumb stroking slowly, deliberately; there is _so_ much possession in that one touch… “Every single time I look at you, I’m going to remember this. How you feel, inside me, taking me, touching me. I’m going to think about it, day and night, when we get back home. And one night, when everyone else is asleep, you’re going to wake up with me in your bed, kissing you, my hands all over you, no matter how many times you try and pretend you don’t want it, until the only thing you can think about is taking me so hard I won’t be able to remember my own name.”

“Christ, Stazia…” he hisses, hands clenching on her hips, probably leaving bruises that will last for a month; the images provoked by words alone are beyond comprehension. Raw, crude, vulgar even without profanity, and he’s long-gone into the dangerous waters she’s churned up for him. Lost, drowning, drunk on fantasy alone, dizzy with her scent, her heat, the way she’s holding onto him and still talking, still whispering low in his ear, purring at him, flicking her tongue over his skin like earlier, when she…

Damn it all, he’ll be thinking about this too. Day after day, night after night, he’ll be thinking about this, all of this. He’ll test his patience, push it past the point of endurance until it starts crying for mercy, and then it just might be _him_ slipping into her bed, one night, burning with the need to have her, again and again and—

Without warning, her legs tighten, her hips thrust upward and twist, hard, and suddenly he’s flat on his back, Stazia’s hands splayed across his chest, and she’s riding him so hard his vision blurs. “ _Stazia…_ ” he groans, holding her hips mostly for support, but also to hold onto something, anything, when he’s lost his bearings and he has no sense of balance left to stabilize him. Her nails scratch down, lightly, nothing too dramatic, but every nerve in his body is over-stimulated right now, and a very uncivilized word falls off his tongue.

“Language, Mr. Nimbus,” she purrs, as though she’s completely innocent in this, “My ears are sensitive.”

“Like hell they are.” He growls, holding her hips tight in place and grinding upward, smirking as she shivers and moans, trying to respond in kind and whining when he won’t let her. “Pulling that little stunt without warning was quite rude, you know. Maybe I should just keep you like this, all night long.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She whispers, sounding breathless, clawing desperately at his chest. He cocks an eyebrow and repeats the motion, twice, while she writhes and leaves red lines across his skin. “Damn it, Kyle…”

“There’s my girl.” His smirk broadens. “You’ve put on such a pretty face for him, these past nights. Ice cold, and yet so nice to look at. He thinks he’s getting a demure little housewife, to cook and clean and keep the bed warm at night. He has no idea who you are. No…damned…clue.” 

Each word punctuates a deliberate thrust, his ears drinking in the frantic keening whimpers and the way she tries so valiantly to get leverage back. She is alive, electric; hair mussed, eyes bright and wild, teeth white beneath parted lips, red and bruised from each kiss; desperate, half an animal, and beautiful. Sinfully gorgeous. He could fall in love with her, right here, right now, just like this.

“Kyle…” she hisses, half imploring and half demanding, “Let go. I need…”

“I know. I know exactly what you need.” He repeats the motion, yet again, and she nearly sobs. “I’ve got you, baby. _I_ ’ve got you, not him.” Again, and again; she’s thrashing and writhing atop him. “He wants you. Every time he looks at you, I can see it. He wants you in his bed, between your legs. He thinks _he_ can touch you. He thinks _he_ can have you.”

“No. No, no, no.” she gasps, clutching at his shoulders. “I don’t want him. I want _you_ , Kyle. Damn it, I’ve wanted you since the night we met. It was simple, base attraction, and then things kept happening between us. So many things have happened…and tonight, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I wanted this. I wanted you, all of you. Just…just screw it all. Screw everything else. I don’t even care if I can’t walk tomorrow. Just be mine, all night. Please. I need to have you. I need to be with you. _Please_ , baby…”

She had him at “since the night we met”. Literally, because whether he actually admits it or not—and he may never need to, with her unfairly in-tune powers of perception—she had his undivided attention from the second he saw her in the doorway of her father’s study. Everything that has followed since just added to an attraction that was already too much from the beginning. Now…he wonders if he really is human, at all, because having the ability to keep it together as long as he has, with her happily demolishing the boundaries left and right, seems a godly feat.

Stazia whines and claws down his back when he flips them, crushes her down into the bedding, and surrenders all control over his place. He shouldn’t, because they aren’t exactly alone here, and the mattresses are creaking beneath the abuse, the headboard half an inch away from slamming into the wall, but he really just does not care, and the woman beneath him doesn’t seem to care much either. 

She bites down into his shoulder, hard, to muffle what he’s sure would have been a scream, and he rips the sheets with a clenching grip to stifle his own outburst, a short while after. This time, there’s no hope for any grace or delicacy in his next movements; his arms are boneless, refusing to support him any longer, and he collapses. He hears a soft sound from her, when their bodies meet each other so abruptly, but his attempt to shift to the side fails, thanks to uncooperative limbs, and Stazia simply winds her arms around him, cradling his head to her chest. He quickly finds it difficult to remember why, exactly, he needed to move.

She’s shivering, chest pounding, and her skin is damp, like she just showered. He can’t lift his head, not completely, but he does set a slow kiss between her breasts. “Are you alright?”

Silence, for a while, and then her fingers slowly run downward, along his neck and shoulders. “There’s something I should probably tell you.” She murmurs, still halfway breathless, but certainly more coherent than he feels, at the moment. “Since we’re done with the old game, and we’ve managed to screw the rules left and right tonight. It’s going to mess everything else up, a lot, but…”

With some silent negotiating and a promise to remain immobile for at least five minutes, he gets his limbs to work again and crawls up to rest beside her on the pillows. Her hair is smeared across the forehead, cheeks, and one side of her neck; there’s a distinct flush across her skin; her eyes are still dark, but they seek him out with a strange sense of apprehension that makes her look exceptionally young.

“Tell me.” He says, combing fingers through her damp hair, pushing it back, then tracing a slow path down her throat, before she catches his hand in hers, entwining fingers, holding it tightly.

“You didn’t just claim my body.” She continues, after a short pause, thumb running over his knuckles. “There’s…something else you have. And you’ve had it for a while now, actually.”

Even with his head still spinning and coherent thought not completely within reach, the look in her eyes and the way she’s subtly rested their joined hands atop her chest—the left side of her chest, to be specific—doesn’t go missed, and he’s not a complete idiot. The message is…explicitly clear.

He exhales slowly, eyes running from her face to their hands to her face again. “Well…that does screw everything up, doesn’t it?”

“Royally.” She nods, still intently focused on his face. Tension ripples softly across her features, pooling in her eyes. She’s opened herself up, made herself vulnerable, exposed. This is not something she’s good at. Actually, he’d go so far as to say she’s terrible at it. Speaking her mind is one thing; that, she’s got down to a science. This…this is something else. And she definitely isn’t good at it.

Of course, he’s even worse, so that at least makes them the perfect pair.

“Stazia…” What does he even say? This does, absolutely, completely, royally screw things up. Everything. Araz isn’t expecting her to love Moran, or even like him, but being married to someone she doesn’t love—while illogical and only creating a recipe for disaster—is one matter, and an easy resolve at that. Either she learns to enjoy being trapped in a loveless marriage, or she suffers in silence. Her choice doesn’t matter; her father won’t care. But to love someone else—and not just anyone, but her appointed guard, nonetheless…yes, that definitely screws this whole mess up.

“I don’t need you to respond.” She says, very seriously and without any of the dramatics he was half expecting. “I just…thought you should know.”

He opens his mouth, but she’s clearly not interested in hearing anything more. She’s said what she wanted to say, and now she kisses him, again, and again, and again, hands running lazily down his chest, to his waist, and…

The hell with it. They’ll figure this out later.


End file.
